


Ain't It Funny What You'll Do?

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: Ineffable Tutors [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: And today Crowley had worn tartan socks. Aziraphale had noticed as he watched Crowley teaching Warlock maths (Crowley had always been regrettably good at maths; Warlock was shaping up to be much the same). Crowley had deigned to perch on top of the desk in the library they were using as a one-student classroom, crossing one leg up over his bony knee. The cuff of his trousers had ridden up just enough that the pattern was evident. A tiny peek of beige and tan crosshatch, unmistakable to Aziraphale, who’s been wearing that pattern for centuries.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Tutors [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912819
Comments: 66
Kudos: 197





	Ain't It Funny What You'll Do?

**Author's Note:**

> We're back on the tutors train again xD this was initially supposed to be saucy - but it didn't go that way in the end, the boys just wanted to have emotions instead xD
> 
> Title is from "Knee Socks" by Arctic Monkeys and honestly? I will probably keep titling my tutors fics off of Arctic Monkeys for purely personal reasons and I won't be taking questions about that at this time xD

If it had been any other day, Aziraphale could have ignored it. Could’ve thought of it as a trick of the light or a flight of fancy. Could’ve left well enough alone and not let his mind latch on to what he thought he saw.

Aziraphale is well-practiced at this; at making excuses for things. At not reading into the way yellow eyes linger a bit too long, on the meaning behind favors and gifts. He decidedly does not get caught up in the fleeting touch of long spindly fingers to his short and stout ones over a passed bottle of wine. Well, maybe just a little bit. Lets himself think of it in the wee hours of the night when no one is around to notice.

But the clock is ticking and the world keeps spinning, and nothing in all of creation is slowing it down. The End (capital E) is coming, all rather soon now; and Crowley, for whatever reason, is wearing tartan socks today.

They aren’t just any tartan, they’re _Aziraphale’s_ tartan. And all the pomp and rules and meanings behind it. He’d often wondered, in the back of his mind, if Crowley had understood. They had been there when the tartans of the old clans were first made; when they were first passed down. They knew the rituals, the familial bonds required. The seriousness of the gift of tartan. 

And one night in 1967, in an intricate ritual of his own devising, Aziraphale had passed Crowley a thermos of holy water, printed with his own tartan. He had hoped Crowley understood the significance, understood that this was Aziraphale reaching out in more ways than one. That he meant everything he said about “someday”, that he wanted Crowley safe, and, under all that with a beige pattern on a tin thermos, that he wanted Crowley by his side, under his mantle.

And today Crowley had worn tartan socks. Aziraphale had noticed as he watched Crowley teaching Warlock maths (Crowley had always been regrettably good at maths; Warlock was shaping up to be much the same). Crowley had deigned to perch on top of the desk in the library they were using as a one-student classroom, crossing one leg up over his bony knee. The cuff of his trousers had ridden up just enough that the pattern was evident. A tiny peek of beige and tan crosshatch, unmistakable to Aziraphale, who’s been wearing that pattern for centuries. He’d spent the majority of his own lesson distracted by the thought of bony ankles, and the majority of the ride in the Bentley back to the shop distracted by further thoughts. Ones that involved interlaced fingers and gentle brushes of lips; thoughts he wasn’t allowed to entertain.

“Well, this is you,” Crowley says matter of factly when they pull up outside the old bookshop. Aziraphale finds he’s not really ready for the day to end, and he could use a drink.

“Would you like to come in, dear? Maybe go over next week’s lesson plans, possibly over a nice bottle of Château Latour?”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” Crowley says with a grin as he shuts off the engine, the both of them clambering out of the car to head inside. Aziraphale fumbles with his keys as Crowley drones on about how Warlock is doing in his schoolwork. 

“Boy’s a _natural_ , angel! Absolutely a wizard at algebra, who would have thought it?” Crowley says as they enter the shop, candles popping to life of their own accord and blinds drawing themselves. Far too late in the evening to be opening anyway. 

“Quite a whiz at numbers, yes. By far his favorite subject.” Aziraphale heads to the back storage as Crowley makes himself comfortable, plopping himself down on the old Chesterfield that’s as much his as anything else in the world at this point. Like he belongs there; like it’s home. Aziraphale takes a moment in the wine storage. Just a bit, just to breathe. It would be unfair, now, to act on these feelings. There are only a few short years left until they learn if their methods have been successful. 

It would be cruel, Aziraphale thinks, to give in now. To let the emotions and feelings and yearning finally overtake him, drag him into the undertow and pull him out to sea. He knows, of course, has known with great clarity since 1941 that Crowley loves him. Has known with an agonizing heartache of his own love since 1862. It had snuck up on him, wormed its way into his heart as a seed way back in the Garden. Blooming bright and brilliant on one of the worst days of his life.

No, none of that now. There isn’t enough time. He wipes away the scant few tears that have decided to track down his face, breathes in deeply, and grabs the wine, determined to, at the very least, have a nice evening in.

Crowley is still chattering from across the shop, going on about something to do with Atila the Hun’s grandmother. Aziraphale can hear the pride in Crowley’s voice, still amazed at how much he’s taken to his disguises. Ashtoreth was much softer than Crowley would like to admit, a caregiver and a nurturer. And now, as Mr. Harrison, Crowley is able to impart knowledge. One would think, with Aziraphale being the bookshop owner, that he would take to teaching much more readily than the demon. But, one would be wrong.

Crowley has spent his entire existence asking questions. Sometimes the wrong ones, and sometimes the right ones. But it is in his nature, down to the very core of him to be inquisitive, to wonder, and to learn. Is it any wonder he takes so readily to gifting that knowledge out? 

He _did_ give humanity the knowledge of good and evil, after all.

“What was that about Gandhi, dear?” Aziraphale asks as he rounds the corner. “I didn’t quite catch —“

Aziraphale is struck speechless, much to his chagrin. Crowley’s tweed jacket has been discarded over a nearby chair, and his trademark boneless sprawl is nothing new. But his feet are propped on the edge of the couch; and right there, wrapped around his ankles, is unmistakably and unequivocally _his_ tartan.

“Didn’t quite catch what?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale locks eyes with him slowly, not sure what to say. Crowley, for his part, looks confused. He follows to where Aziraphale’s eyes had been, sees the cuff of his trousers has crept up just a tad. Aziraphale watches the realization dawn on those long-loved features. Watches the slow turn of Crowley’s eyes back to him.

“You’re wearing my tartan…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“And…how long?”

“Don’t ask me that, angel—“

“ _How long?_ ” It’s more forceful the second time, just a bit of heavenly presence behind it. Enough to make Crowley sit up and take notice, swinging his feet to the floor and tapping his heels nervously. Aziraphale isn’t sure Crowley even understands what he’s asking; not sure that he knows either. It’s not some big cosmic secret; they both know. They don’t speak about it, don’t observe it closely. Keep your distance and keep him safe; the mantra that plays in Aziraphale’s head, late at night when the shop is quiet and his only company is the old and dusty books.

Crowley avoids his eyes, wrings his hands together as he stares at the floor. The air between them is thick and heavy, though with what, Aziraphale isn’t sure yet. Crowley’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly; Aziraphale balls his hands into fists at his sides. Well-manicured nails digging into his palms, grounding him into the moment. Crowley scratches his beard, runs that same hand up through his hair before sighing heavily.

“Don’t remember a time when I didn’t.” He finally says, his voice cracking, his eyes finally meeting Aziraphale’s.

The moment stretches between them, thick like treacle. Aziraphale can’t give in now; not when they have so much to lose, not when what’s at stake is everything. What would it gain them if they fail? A few happy years and a bit of distraction before their weapons are at each other’s throats? Just two unwilling soldiers on either side of a war they didn’t want, on the battlefield that was once their home.

But then, what if? What if, in this short stretch of time before everything potentially goes to Hell (literally), they could lean on each other? It wouldn’t be much, but it would be theirs. But what’s the point if it could be painful later?

Before Aziraphale can break his thoughts to respond, Crowley stands and crosses over to him, takes the wine bottle from his shaking grip, and sets it aside.

“Look, angel, we can forget this. I’ll go back to my flat, we’ll call it a night - pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”

Crowley is standing so close to him, less than a foot away even though it feels like miles and Aziraphale doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want to forget about this. He doesn’t want to run anymore and he realizes, with solid clarity and conviction, that the reason for anything — the reason they should stop running and be happy _now_ — is precisely because things could be painful later.

“Don’t!” Aziraphale reaches out and grabs Crowley’s sleeve as he turns away, freezing the both of them in the moment. Amber eyes meet his, searching for answers that Aziraphale doesn’t have. He’s on the wrong foot, out of his element with no idea where to go next. There isn’t a precedence for any of this, there never has been. Not for an angel’s love —singular, not plural— pent up for centuries with nowhere to go. An angel’s love is meant to be all-encompassing, of everything that exists in all of the world, not like this. Not with a single focus point. Not with only one star pulling that love into an orbit that is nigh inescapable.

What even happens now? Aziraphale doesn’t know. But he lets his instincts take over, lets this far too human need that has consumed him since a cold and dreary day in a park in 1862 take the lead. Lets the sense of dread melt away from him, lets it be replaced by anticipation instead as he threads his fingers through Crowley’s. They fit together perfectly and his heart jumps into his throat.

“Aziraphale…” His name in Crowley’s mouth is a question, one that Crowley has been asking for longer than Aziraphale has ever wanted to admit.

“Don’t go, please, I…” Aziraphale’s words fail him. How does one say something that has been left unsaid for so long? How does one give voice to that? Tears sting at the corner of his eyes as he grips Crowley’s hand tighter.

There’s the soft caress of a thumb on his cheek, lightly brushing away those tears. A calming voice whispering comfort as he’s pulled into arms that are so familiar to him in every way except for _this_. They’ve never held hands before, never held one another like this, and yet it feels so right and so familiar. It feels like coming home.

Crowley holds him close, lets him cry; stays steadfast as Aziraphale crumbles, rubbing circles into his back. Comforting him, of all things. Shakily, Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s thin frame, finally knowing what it’s like to have the one he loves most in his arms. It starts his tears falling anew, knowing that he’ll never be able to go back. They’ve crossed a line, and neither of them can turn away from it any longer.

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley whispers softly on a cracked voice, “S’gonna be alright.” It’s only now that Aziraphale realizes Crowley is crying, too. He squeezes the demon tighter, nuzzles his face into his neck, marveling at how Crowley’s sharp angels compliment his own soft curves. How they fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle, two halves of one soul, like the old philosophers used to say.

They stay like this, for hours or minutes Aziraphale can’t say. All he can do is stand here, breathing in the faint hint of brimstone that lingers on Crowley’s skin, feeling the rise and fall of Crowley’s breathing. He’s never been held like this, never held anyone like this. He’s seen the humans do it, of course. Watched Adam wrap his arms around Eve to offer comfort in the unyielding wilderness, watched as Yeshua’s mother wept openly in Mary Magdalene’s arms. All through the millennia, he’s watched as humans have touched each other, have been vulnerable with each other in the hope of just some simple comfort in life. It’s different for them, when life is so fleeting and so short. Where love is not just something to want, it’s something needed from the moment they are born until the last breath that they take. When time is so short, so ephemeral, it’s impossible to face it alone.

Time has never been short or fleeting, not for him or for Crowley. The wide expanse of forever has always stretched out in front of them, just as the wide expanse of before stretches behind. Both of them older than the universe itself, architects in the crew of God’s creation. When you cannot truly be killed by mortal means, it’s easy to forget that an end is planned. _There’s all the time in the world. Wait for me, go a little slower, we’ll get there._

There is no time now, four years at best if their plan doesn’t work, and Aziraphale can feel the crushing weight of mortality now. He wonders how the humans have ever survived underneath it.

But for now, there are thin fingers carding through Aziraphale’s pale curls, whispering words of comfort. There’s a warm hand on the small of his back, tracing circles with a thumb. The gentleness and softness of the actions make his chest hurt and he wonders if this is what the humans call “heartbreak”. He pulls back reluctantly, needing to see Crowley’s face, needing to read the emotions there. 

He swipes a calloused thumb across Crowley’s cheek, collecting a stray tear that’s lingering there. Just this once, just for now, he lets himself get lost in Crowley’s eyes. Yellow like molten gold, glowing in the relative darkness, brighter than the candles. Aziraphale lets his hand rest on Crowley’s cheek, taking in the surprising softness of the beard he’s been sporting these last few months. Crowley leans into it, eyes searching Aziraphale’s own as he turns slowly —ever so slowly—and places a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s palm.

Nothing has ever felt like this, so simple and gentle of a gesture, and yet the maelstrom it causes within Aziraphale could destroy an entire coastal city if he let it. This flood of love and acceptance and belonging, this overwhelming feeling of _yes, you,_ you _are the one I should be running to, that I should be going through this life with. It’s always been you how could I have ever pushed you away?_

And so Aziraphale doesn’t push him away; resolves to never do so again. Instead, he lets his hand drift along Crowley’s jawline, around to the back of his head. Lets his fingers finally, after so long spent wondering, learn just how soft Crowley’s hair is. He pulls, Crowley comes willingly to meet him halfway, and for the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s almost anticlimactic in its simplicity. A gentle brush of lips, an intimate touch reserved for humans and not for them. The heavens don’t shake, lightning doesn’t strike them down, God herself does not descend in a glorious cacophony of trumpets to cast him into the pit. It’s just him and Crowley, standing in the bookshop, with their lips and hearts and souls pressed to one another. Content and calm in this human-bound method of affection, this gentleness.

They break apart slowly, as if moving through a fog. Aziraphale lets his eyes fall open, sees Crowley’s still closed, a small and quiet smile quirking up the corners of his lips. It’s unbearably tender, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to hold him until the sun burns out. Crowley opens his eyes slowly, meets Aziraphale’s gaze. The small and quiet smile spreads, breaking across his face like dawn light.

“I do hope that was alright, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers into the fading darkness of the room, afraid to speak too loudly, to break this spell that’s between them right now. Crowley still holds him tight, like he’s something precious or worthy.

“Angel, I…” Crowley’s voice trails off, no longer more than a string of consonants with no vowels to hold them together. Like too many things are trying to rush out of his mouth at the same time and none of them make sense. Aziraphale just waits, lets Crowley hold him, lets him find his words until he finally lands on three.

Three words, spoken softly and nervously on shaky breath. Spoken in such a way that hints at gearing for rejection; at waiting for the penny to drop. At an expectation of once again being let down, of being too much.

Aziraphale smiles at him, tangles his fingers through Crowley’s hair, feeling the short strands slide smoothly through them. He says three words back. Crowley leans in, and their lips meet again. More insistent this time, more sure of themselves. It feels right, kissing Crowley. Feels like they were meant to fit together this way, like his lips have been waiting countless lifetimes to know the shape of Crowley’s lips. 

There will be time for talk later, time for confessions and promises. For apologies and what-ifs. But for now, they sink to the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, and just for a moment in time, they are able to hold one another. To forget about what’s coming and just exist and touch and kiss each other softly like the humans do.

  
  



End file.
